From The Saddle
The horse trade wasn’t my idea. It was true that my bronc-riding career was limping into the sunset, and I’d considered buying a few mares to breed. But, the offered trade cameas a surprise. Up until now rodeo saddle broncs, rehabbing race horses, starting colts, riding thespoiled rough string, and packing mules were my claim to fame. I’d earned my pro-rodeo status competing across the U.S., and the wilderness hunt- ing camp outfitters in Montana and Wyoming habitually assigned sour mishandled horses to my charge. It was my common thought that a gentleman cowboy should raise his own herd of riding stock and that it shouldbe well-mannered, wellbred, and carry ample brains. Saddling and stepping aboard outlaws before daylight was wearing thin.
The exchange question came to me whether I had a spare bull in my pasture. I did. Then the next query was whether I was willing to swap the bull for a couple of mares. This sounded odd. But, there was an elderly man with 20 head of mares and a stud. He was no longer physically capable to care for them and his children decided to trade them for cattle. The offer was that I may have first choice for two of the brood animals. However, on the day of the transaction, the deal was sweetened. There was only one mare that suited me. It was a stocky little gray beauty with good bone underneath and refined cow horse looks. She appeared to be an “easy-keeper” and was thus dubbed, “Fatty”. But, now the children wanted me to take more horses. There was an- other taller rangier flea-bitten gray mare that was my second choice. The third choice was more difficult so I flipped a coin and settled on a blazefaced sorrel. After that, there was a big green-broke gelding of uncertain age or parentage. The bull was unloaded and four horses went home with me. For the sake of justice, I’ll admit the bull cost me $1500.
Another aspect of the day’s business was that Fatty had a baby in her. The stud she’d been running with was supposedly from Easy Toro descent – run- ning blood. Also, the first Easy Toro two-year-old I’d ever seen was a filly that I broke for Lou ie Schneider. It was smart and a pleasure to train. Years later Louie's nephew, Will, was at my house team roping on the horse.
During the gestation of Fatty’s pregnancy, I managed to put a handle on the big gangly sorrel gelding. It wasn’t ornery but it was no fast learner. In a few months, it was ready enough and George Little's son bought it for $1500. Par for the course, a year later the news got to me that the young man was bucked off several times and wasn’t overly proud of his purchase. At the same time, the third mare in the trade flipped over backward with me and I sold her through the auction ring - $250.
Bum was born in the late Spring or early Summer. He was a good sized nice looking red color with a broken blaze on his face and mane that flashed flaxen in the sun. On initial in - spection, the only knock on him was a front foot that wandered towards the east. However, it was never a trait that slowed him down or caused him pain.
On the contrary, Bum had speed.
He grew fast but was shy. Dodging and boogering out of the country was in his repertoire. He was blue-collar. His vocabulary was limited to three or maybe four-letter words and once he mastered simple math he was good. Trigonometry would never be in his playbook. He relied on human trust. If I convinced him that backing into a roping box was home plate and jumping to a steer’s hip was heading toward the end zone – he understood and complied. He became adept at stepping sideways to open gates and walking step by careful step through the brush as I ducked limbs and moved branches. He could cut a cow but it wasn’t his favorite job. Roping and the chase were more his thing.
Likewise, he was bored with hunting. His pace would lag, his head would bob, and he plod- ded half asleep. On a Wyoming, Big Horn Mountains, elk hunt he stumbled through the snow wishing he was in Texas. Up ahead a moose lumbered out of the timber. Bum noticed but waited. I smooched and shifted my seat and the entire scene changed. His ears perked and in three jumps we were thundering across a snowy meadow, making the white powder fly, and dead on the moose’s hip. But, on this day I abstained from pitching my loop.
A man should know his boundaries and certain men should never uncoil their lariat.
My Corriente bull had Mama's Charolais bull down in a stock tank. I rode in and snared the horned culprit but Bum couldn’t drag him up to the pens on the hill. We broke up the fight, but in doing so Bum took a tumble. I was lazy about picking up my leg and suffered my first broken big bone. On another occasion, I fit my twine on a bareback bronc. A cohort riding near made a remark and for the slightest instant, I glanced away from my business. The bronc ran behind Bum putting the hot nylon rope under his tail. At the same moment, I spun in the saddle to rectify the mistake – too late. Bum ejected my butt into a fence, and kicked me before I hit the ground. That left a permanent hitch in my stride.
Bum saw the mountains numerous times. He was good in an arena or in open country. He nickered the last time I came to meet him. Twenty-five years later… He was sick. We nodded to each other and then it was over. When we’re gone there are just the stories.
